An Ignorant Thief

January, 1816: The Opera

My story is not sad, nor is it necessarily happy. It is a story. And stories are meant to be told, whether long or short, tragic or comic. We all have one, and they are all worth sharing, no matter how small and insignificant they seem. So this is mine.

It starts on a cold day in January, 1816. I was a small ten year old dancing across my bedroom in a nightgown, spinning without purpose, beat, or music, as children do. I had just been to my first opera. I must confess, I hated the singing at operas (and still do), but the dancing I loved, the beautiful dresses, the graceful music. My nanny walked in just as I knocked into a vase of flowers. She shrieked and rushed over to right the unsteady bit of porcelain, just as my mother walked in. She was still draped in her finery, hair flawless as always. I admired her, and would do anything to be just like her. I rushed up and tugged at her dress. "Mum, mum! I can dance!"

She gently freed my hands from her dress and brushed it down. "Good job, dear. Good job."

She sounded rather disinterested, but in my childish brain I thought it was nothing more than fatigue. She gave instructions to my nanny. Tzivia was not many years older than I, and we were the best of friends, since I was never allowed to make any others. My mother left without a word. I waltzed to my bed and flopped on my back. "Oh Tzi, wasn't it wonderful? The music was amazing and the men were handsome."

She settled heavily and comfortably into a chair by me. "Yes, and the first world performance too! I quite loved the count, didn't you?"

I stuck out my tongue. "No, silly. I much preferred his friend." I sighed. "Figaro, Figaro, Figaro. He was the best character in the whole show. Handsome, funny..."

I trailed off into silence. We sat there for a minute, before I sat up and turned to Tzi. "But, despite how perfect Figaro is, I wish to marry someone who loves me as much as Almaviva loves Rosine."

By this time I was again up and again dancing with my invisible partner. Tzi laughed and stood up, jumping into the dance, and we spun crazily around the room, both with invisible people to aid us, leading us through waltzes, minuets, and even tangos, which Tzi was surprised I knew, saying it was a rather mature dance for me. I laughed my way through, and fifteen minutes later we were laying on the rug, breathing hard and smiling even bigger than when we began. "Tzi, I hope you will find your count."

I stared up at the ceiling. She turned to look at me. "Sadie, I hope you will find your Figaro."